


Revelations

by janto321 (FaceofMer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Beating, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Holmes Brothers, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, M/M, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 09:11:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5451269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mycroft goes looking for Sherlock he doesn't expect to find himself kidnapped. Or for secrets to be laid bare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revelations

**Author's Note:**

> This is a [commission](http://merindab.tumblr.com/commissions) fic for someone who wished to remain anonymous

Mycroft moved down the narrow, dirty alley, resisting the urge to pull the gun from inside of his suit. He knew he didn’t belong down here, not dressed like this, but when he’d gotten the report he’d come straightaway. Sherlock would get himself mixed up with these kinds of people. Silently he prayed he wasn’t using again, that this really was just for a case.

A noise to his left made him turn, umbrella held like a weapon. But it was just a cat, black and small and skinny. It sat on top of the rubbish bin and mewed at Mycroft like an accusation. It reminded him far too much of his brother for comfort and he took step forward, offering it his fingers to sniff.

“Slumming with the locals?” sneered Sherlock’s voice from behind him.

Mycroft didn’t turn around, letting the cat eat from his fingers. “What are you doing down here, Sherlock?”

“It’s a case. There’s no need for you to come after me.”

Mycroft listened to his tone of voice. It didn’t sound like he was currently on anything; perhaps he really was telling the truth. The cat suddenly jerked back and darted off, making Mycroft turn seconds before they were assaulted.

Bringing up his umbrella, Mycroft blocked a knife attack before punching a second man. There was a grunt as Sherlock punched one of his own. There was no time for Mycroft to grab his gun as he fought his attackers, sending one headfirst into the bin and shoving another against the alley wall.

Suddenly the cold click of a handgun safety slipping off echoed against the walls. Sherlock had stopped fighting. “Turn around,” a woman ordered.

Mycroft turned slowly keeping his hands visible, wondering if he could pull his own gun before a shot could be fired. One look told him that was impossible. Sherlock was being held tightly by one man. The speaker was a dark-haired, blue-eyed woman, holding a gun on Sherlock, half a step away so that it couldn’t be easily knocked from her hands. Sherlock glared, a cut on his temple bleeding down one side of his face, nothing particularly worrying. Three other men awaited her orders, two of them also holding guns on Sherlock and the two behind Mycroft staggering to their feet.

“Take the umbrella,” she ordered, with the faint hint of an accent. Czechoslovakian, he suspected. One of them took the umbrella from his hand. “Give us the mobile and your handgun. Slowly.”

Mycroft reached into his pocket, blindly hitting a few keys as he pulled it out and handed it over. Then he opened his suit coat and pulled out his handgun, handing it to the same man who held his umbrella. The woman’s hand never wavered. 

“Search him,” she ordered to the only man behind her who didn’t have a weapon trained on Sherlock. He stepped around and patted down Mycroft. 

Mycroft kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock, trying to find any sort of opening, and seeing none.The man patting him down removed the knife from his shoe and stepped back.

“I’ll do a more thorough search myself,” she said, giving a nod.

Before Mycroft could react, something was jabbed into his skin and he collapsed to the cold, damp street, vaguely hearing Sherlock shout his name.

**

When Mycroft came to again, he found himself sitting, handcuffed and bound to a thick pipe in a bare cell. One wall didn’t quite reach the ceiling, letting light in. The door looked solid and at least one security camera blinked in the corner. Sherlock was a few feet away, cuffed and sporting a few more bruises. He’d clearly tried to fight again after Mycroft had been rendered unconscious.

“Sherlock,” he called softly. “Are you hurt?” he asked in Portuguese, hoping that it wasn’t one of the languages their captors knew.

As Sherlock turned his head, Mycroft could see him taking a moment to work out the language before answering in it. “Fine, I suppose,” he said, managing to sound grumpy. “They took my lockpicks. And yours.”

Mycroft nodded. His suit coat was gone as well. “Clearly, I was the target,” he said, now speaking in a combination of Portuguese, Russian and French.

“Obviously,” said Sherlock in kind. “My criminal case was a distraction. And it worked.”

Mycroft leaned his head against the cool concrete wall. “What was your case?”

Sherlock sniffed. “A crime ring. It really wasn’t- “ He got cut off mid sentence as the heavy door opened and a large man walked inside, followed by the woman.

No questions were asked. The big man simply walked over to Mycroft, grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him up a bit, before punching him hard enough for him to see stars.

Mycroft tasted blood. There was no way to defend himself as another punch slammed into him.

“Stop it!” yelled Sherlock, cuffs rattling as he pulled against them.

One more punch followed and Mycroft was dropped, falling back to the ground. The woman looked at the pair of them, then walked out.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock’s voice was desperate, back to speaking English.

“I’m okay,” said Mycroft, cracking open one eye to look at him, seeing the fear on his face. “I’ve had worse.”

Sherlock swallowed hard, still straining against his own bonds. Mycroft turned his head and spat out blood.

“You have, haven’t you?” Sherlock said with wonder as he stopped pulling and stilled.

“What do you mean?” asked Mycroft, feeling like this was probably not the right time or place for this conversation.

“You missed my fourteenth birthday. Not even a call or a note.” Sherlock was looking him over, clearly deducing.

Mycroft closed his eyes. “It does not matter, brother mine.”

“Who was holding you?” There was the faintest tinge of panic in Sherlock’s voice.

“Sherlock, it was years ago. It does not matter at this point.” Mycroft’s face was throbbing and he did not particularly want to revisit old ghosts. They needed to focus on getting out of here.

“I missed you,” said Sherlock quietly, in French.

Mycroft opened his good eye again and looked over. Sherlock was looking away now, knees drawn up. Time to focus him on the task at hand.

“How sturdy is that pipe?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock tested it, wincing. “Sturdy,” he answered.

Mycroft tried his own. “Indeed. Can you get to your feet? My hands are cuffed and tied to each other and the pipe.” He tried standing himself, only to be stopped by a an obstruction halfway up. A slight smile curling his lips, he dragged the rope across it, glad they’d tied that tighter than the cuffs.

Sherlock glanced at the security camera, then tried the same thing, only to find that he could stand all the way up. “I’m standing, now what?” he asked, working his hands.

“Use that second-class mind of yours,” said Mycroft.

Scoffing, Sherlock managed to pull his hands free.

“We’ve only got moments, Sherlock,” whispered Mycroft. “Go.”

Sherlock hesitated, clearly torn. Footsteps settled his mind and he scrambled up the pipe, hoisting himself to the gap near the ceiling and squeezing himself through. Mycroft could only hope it was enough.

A heartbeat after Sherlock vanished the door burst open. Orders were shouted and a needle again punctured his skin, knocking him out.

** 

Mycroft’s head pounded almost as fast as his heart. He heard voices shouting at him in Russian, felt strikes, pain spiking down his body. He cried out, unable to keep the noise in, but not answering their questions either. Sobbing, he sunk to the floor, trying to protect his head. But some part of his mind was already trying to figure out how he could escape…

Gasping, Mycroft woke. The pounding headache remained, but he was alone. The space he was in was pitch black. Swallowing back some primal fear of the dark, he stretched his hands out and found he was in some sort of cubicle, barely big enough to stand in. His stomach rumbled, giving him an estimate of the amount of time he’d been held. There was a faint draft of fresh air, though he couldn’t locate it.

With any luck, Sherlock was away and free, though Mycroft knew that clearly he’d been moved.

Sitting down again, Mycroft rubbed his wrists. He wasn’t even sure which wall held the door, or if it was in the ceiling. His questing hands had found nothing but rough concrete. Touching his own face he found one eye still swollen shut. Battered and bloody, tears still wetting his cheeks from the nightmare.

He hadn’t thought of that place in a long time.

Settling against the wall, grounding himself in the blackness, he closed his eyes and went into his own mind palace, travelling down halls until he reached the door behind which those memories should have been locked. He found the door was cracked open.

With trepidation, Mycroft opened the door the rest of the way. The room was musty and disused, but in the middle of it he could still see himself, bloody and crying, holding his broken arm close to his body. Sighing he walked in and crouched by himself.

“Fieldwork. Never my favorite thing, less so after this. My contact turned on us. The Iron Curtain was crumbling down and she feared for her life. Five months I was held before they managed to extract me. And I could tell no one what happened.”

He stood and looked around the room, saw the bloodied chains. He rubbed his forehead. “But why is this all coming to me now? I’ve been held since, granted not quite like this. I’m missing something.” He paced the room and found another door. Frowning, he pushed it open.

“Jarmila,” he whispered, seeing the contact who had betrayed him. She was still beautiful, dark hair and eyes, captured here in his memory. She was sitting at a table at their favorite restaurant in Prague, wearing the green dress that he liked so much. Mycroft had told her it fit her name.

Mycroft started to turn away, only for things to start clicking into place. He looked back at Jarmila, then closed the door and walked out, remembering the woman who had captured him. Dark hair and blue eyes. She could be younger then she looked. Was it possible?”

Opening his eyes, Mycroft caught his breath in the darkness. Was this all some elaborate revenge from a child he’d never known? Did she blame him for Jarmila’s death? He knew she’d been killed two years after his capture because it had crossed his desk, but there had been no mention of a child.

And it was possible that he could have fathered a child, though he’d been careful. The intimate relationships he’d had in his life had been few and far between, but at the time it seemed a natural part of his work. Another reason he wasn’t cut out for fieldwork.

Caring was not an advantage. All hearts were broken. And yet he never could stand fully dispassionate.

Shivering, he wrapped his arms around himself. All he could do was wait. Perhaps she’d want to talk to him, perhaps not. But either way, at this time there was no escape.

**

An indeterminable time later the ceiling of his cell was lifted and Mycroft was hauled out and roughly cuffed. They were in some sort of warehouse, near the river, he could smell. Pulled to his feet, Mycroft was taken down a short hallway and pushed into a chair.

Left alone for the moment, he took in his surroundings. Another bare room. There was the smell of something cooking and his stomach rumbled in anticipation. What Sherlock didn’t know was that part of the reason he struggled with his weight was because he’d been kept so hungry during those five months. It had taken a bit of therapy to not panic just because he was hungry, and even now he’d rather eat a bit too much than not quite enough.

The young woman stepped into the room, looking him over. “Are you comfortable?” she asked venomously.

Mycroft met her eyes, blue like his own. But hard like Jarmila’s when he’d first met her. He gave a shrug. “Perhaps not the best accommodations I’ve had.”

“You have no idea why you are here, yes?” she asked, pacing around him like a tiger stalking its prey.

“I do have a theory, actually,” he said, hair standing up on the back of his neck as she walked behind him.

“And what is this brilliant theory?” she asked, coming back around to face Mycroft. 

“Your mother was a women named Jarmila. Your father, perhaps, is me.”

A slow smile curled her lips. “I had been told you were clever, Mister Holmes.” Her accent felt a bit thicker, giving a darker bite to her words. 

“If this is all revenge, well, it couldn't have been easy.” Mycroft met her gaze. 

“This is true. But you ruined her. She lost her life because of you.” She took another step closer. 

“She nearly cost me mine. What's your name?” 

“Aneta. I was raised by my aunt, since my mother died when I was very small. My aunt told me about you. What you did to her.”

“I never forced her to do anything,” said Mycroft. 

Aneta slapped him across his already bruised cheek, making him wince. “She died.”

“And I’m sorry.” Mycroft took a deep breath, then another. “I truly am. I did care for her, deeply.”

Scoffing, Aneta stepped back.

“Killing me won’t bring her back. What if there was another option?” Mycroft was glad he’d always thought fast on his feet.

“Are you trying to bribe me?” Aneta raised an eyebrow. Mycroft couldn’t help but think of how it mirrored one of his own expressions.

“Not exactly. You must be quite clever to track me here. I’m not an easy man to find when I don’t wish to be. And you had the resources to not only do so, but also use my brother as bait. So, not a bribe, a job.”

“And why would I accept such a thing from you?”

Mycroft met her eyes. “Because if I had known, even for one instant, that you existed, you would never have been alone.”

Aneta looked back at him, clearly weighing her options. Mycroft knew by what she’d said that her Aunt had since passed on. That and her bloody minded vengeance. But she hadn’t simply killed him, though she’d had several opportunities, and probably more before capturing him. And she was willing to talk to him here. Granted, she made certain she was in a position of power, but that made her all the more suitable. Mycroft knew that Jarmila had been no fool, and if Aneta truly was their daughter, then she had brains to spare.

“If I accept this offer, no one I work with will know our relation.”

“Of course not. For your safety as well as mine. Did you wish for a test to verify my paternity?”

“Already done. And I can show you the results.”

Mycroft gave a slight smile. A noise in the hallway got their attention. Aneta moved behind Mycroft and unlocked the cuffs. He stood in front of her a moment before the door slammed open, Greg Lestrade and two other officers standing with guns drawn.

“I’m fine,” said Mycroft. “She’s fine.”

Greg slowly lowered his gun, taking in Mycroft’s injuries.

“Nothing I can’t take care of at home,” said Mycroft. He turned a bit towards her. “This is Anthea,” he said, deliberately changing her name. “She helped me. There will be much paperwork, I’m sure.”

“Not tonight,” said Greg. “I’m going to take you home.”

“I need to get Anthea settled, then you can,” promised Mycroft.

Sherlock appeared in the doorway. His eyes widened at the sight of the two of them, but he thankfully didn’t say anything. Mycroft would have to speak with him in private later.

** 

Greg drove them to the nearest office of Mycroft’s. Making some phone calls, Mycroft arranged a safe house for Aneta as well as getting her into some training under one of his top agents. “You’ll be working with me,” he said to her.

Aneta nodded. “Thank you, sir,” she said, once again hiding her accent.

“You’re welcome. My associate Janice will be picking you up in a few minutes. We’ll discuss more tomorrow.”

“Of course.”

Mycroft smiled while Greg lurked in the background, clearly suspicious, but refraining from asking anything. Janice arrived soon afterwards and he turned Anthea over to her capable hands, promising to speak with her soon. 

Greg steered Mycroft to his car the moment they were gone, handing over a couple sandwiches he'd brought along. Mycroft ate quickly and hungrily, feeling his stomach and nerves settle a bit as he ate. Greg knew he didn't like to be hungry. 

Arriving at Mycroft's house, Greg led him inside and to his bathroom, sitting him down and tending to his battered face. When Sherlock escaped, he must have gone straight to the Yard. Mycroft could see the concern in Greg’s eyes, though they'd barely spoken. 

Once Greg finished cleaning him up, he kissed Mycroft's forehead. “Did you want a hot bath or a more proper supper?”

“I'll take a shower while you cook?” suggested Mycroft. 

“Deal. I'm a better cook anyway.”

Mycroft watched him go, then stripped out of his dirty clothes while the shower heated up. It had been such a long day, two, probably. It felt like a lifetime. His body ached as he stepped into the hot water, the ghost pain of a once broken arm tingling along his side.

He washed quickly, stomach rumbling again as he could smell Greg’s cooking. He pulled on a robe and followed his nose to the kitchen. Greg smiled and set a plate in front of him, taking his own and sitting next to him. They ate in comfortable silence while Mycroft got his thoughts together. Greg’s hand wandered over to thread their fingers together in a silent show of support.

When they finished, Mycroft led Greg into his study, pushing him into a chair and then sitting in his lap, resting against him as Greg’s arms circled his waist, holding him carefully. Mycroft breathed him in. “I found out today I have a daughter.” He didn’t need to tell Greg this was just between the two of them, he kept more than one secret for Mycroft.

Greg stilled for a moment, then rubbed his back. “Anthea is yours?”

Mycroft nodded. “Her mother was responsible for my capture all those years ago.” Greg knew about the nightmares; he’d spent enough nights here.

“And despite everything you’re willing to give her a job and a chance.” Greg nuzzled his hair. “You’re a good man, Mycroft Holmes.”

“I’m simply a man, doing the best I can,” he answered quietly. “With perhaps a stronger feeling of familial obligations than most.”

“Even with someone you just met. We should go to bed, Mycroft.”

Nodding, Mycroft reluctantly slipped out of his lap. They went upstairs, changed into their sleeping clothes and climbed into Mycroft’s big bed. Greg kissed him gently and pulled him into his arms. Mycroft closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, thinking of a woman he’d once known and a girl that bore his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to beltainefaerie, humshappily and phipiohsum475 for the beta.
> 
> You can find me at [merindab.tumblr.com.](http://merindab.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thanks, as always, for reading!


End file.
